


A Merry Little Christmas

by msgenevieve



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Het, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-12
Updated: 2006-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been so long since he's felt happy, he's started to wonder if he remembers what it feels like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Merry Little Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a "Holiday Challenge" [here](http://pamalax.livejournal.com/143998.html) \- I picked up the prompt of 'happy Lincoln set during the holidays' and this is the result. It's set post-series and contains vague spoilers for Season Two.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas,  
Let your heart be light  
From now on,  
our troubles will be out of sight_

  
~ Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane

  
~*~

  
“Someone’s here.”

His head jerks up at his son’s words, swearing under his breath as the baitfish slips from his grasp, the barb of the hook digging into the pad of his thumb.

“Holy shit,” LJ mutters beside him. Looking up, Lincoln can only echo the sentiment. One hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun, he stares at the casually dressed woman standing on the beach and wonders what the fuck is going on.

“Hello,” Jane says simply, as though they spoke only yesterday rather than six months ago. Her hair is much lighter than he remembers. Maybe the sun is brighter here, maybe it’s because his memories of her are all fucked up. Whatever the reason, she doesn’t look like the woman he knew, and he’s not sure if he’s unhappy about that or not.

“What are you doing here?”

It’s hardly the warmest of welcomes, but something about this woman always make him feel awkward, as though his words are stumbling over each other in their rush to get out of his mouth.

She studies him for a moment, her blue eyes flicking over him, taking note of everything from his sand-encrusted feet to his bait-smeared hands, and he feels an unaccustomed rush of heat creep up the back of his neck. “I wanted to see how you were doing.” Giving him a practiced smile, her gaze slides across to LJ, and her eyes brighten. “How are you, LJ?”

His son grins, then waves a vague hand at their surroundings. “Pretty good.”

Despite the sudden tension coiling in the pit of his stomach - this woman reminds of too many things he wants to forget and everything he’s still missing – Lincoln smiles. It was hard to believe, given everything they’d been through, but his son was showing every sign of becoming an eternal optimist.

Uncomfortably aware of Jane’s unwavering stare, Lincoln drops the baitfish back into the bucket at his feet, then deliberately turns his back, walking the five steps to the water’s edge. He rinses his hands thoroughly, then turns to face her. “You came all the way to Utila to see how we were doing?” He doesn’t bother hiding his skepticism. “You couldn’t have just made a few calls?”

For only the second time since he’s known her, she looks disconcerted, then she lifts her chin. “Seeing is believing, Lincoln.” Her gaze narrows, but he doesn’t think it’s because of the sun. “You know that better than anyone, I’m sure.”

Beside him, LJ clears his throat. “Uh, I might just take this,” he gestures towards their fishing gear, “back up to the house.”

“Make sure you put the poles back in the right place this time,” Lincoln says automatically, then gives his son a smile. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

LJ gives him a look of comic disbelief, then starts to gather up the gear. It only takes him a moment - they’d been playing at being amateur fishermen this morning – and he’s soon trudging across the white sand towards the beach house.

Lincoln looks at the woman who saved his life – and that of his son – more times than he cares to count. She’s dressed more casually than he’s ever seen her, but her tan shorts and sleeveless white blouse still make him feel like a hobo by comparison. Not that he’s complaining. The shorts show off her long legs better than any power suit, and the flips flops dangling from her fingers make her seem almost normal. “Why are you here, Jane?”

“We haven’t talked in a while.”

He shrugs, tearing his gaze away from the curve of her tanned thigh. “Nothing to say, I guess.”

He’d last seen her at his father’s memorial service six months earlier, the strong bones of her face looking as though they’d been carved from granite. She hadn’t cried - he doesn’t like to remember how intently he’d watched her - but he’d seen the devastation in her eyes when she’d found him afterwards to say an awkward goodbye.

She’d spoken to Michael as well, telling him that his father had spoken about him so often that she felt as though she’d known him for years. Michael had nodded and smiled politely, but his red-rimmed eyes had constantly searched the room for Sara, as though he was still afraid to let her out of his sight.

“How’s Michael?” she asks now, and Lincoln knows she’s also remember that last time.

“He’s good.” _Keep it short, keep it simple_ , he tells himself. _That way no one says anything they’ll regret later._

She tilts her head, her eyes sparkling, as though his abrupt reply amuses her. “Will you be seeing him this week?”

He shouldn’t tell her anything, he knows that. Every word he tells her just makes things worse. Makes her think she knows him. “They’ll be here on Thursday.”

“He’s still with Doctor Tancredi, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Still living in London?”

“Yes,” he says brusquely. He doesn’t want to talk about his brother or Sara or their life together with this woman. She’s too close to everything they thought they’d left behind. He shakes his head, but it doesn’t help clear the muddied waters of his thoughts. “You didn’t answer my question.” He takes a few steps towards her, giving up his attempts not to stare at her eyes, her mouth. “What are you doing here?”

She looks at him for a few seconds, then smiles. “I wanted to see you, and now seemed as good a time as any.”

He stares at her, both her slow smile and frank admission making his gut tighten. “It’s Christmas Day on Friday,” he says - foolishly, he thinks - and her smile begins to fade.

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then why aren’t you-” he breaks off, berating himself as he remembers too late the sound of her voice, as cold as her eyes. _I don’t have any family_. “I’m sorry.”

Her blue eyes darken. “I’m not working at the moment,” she says coolly, and he knows his slip up isn’t going to be acknowledged, “and thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.” The corner of her wide mouth twitches with the hint of a wry smile. “No pun intended, of course.”

He lets out his breath - maybe that’s why his chest felt so tight – and shakes his head again. “You always were the master of time management.”

“Speaking of which,” she glances at her watch, the movement drawing his eyes to her slender wrist, the long line of her tanned forearm, “is it too early for the host to offer his guest a drink?”

It was just past noon, but Lincoln had discovered that time didn’t mean much in this place. He studies her for a moment, still wondering what the hell was going on. She returns his gaze steadily, her blue eyes filled with a speculative gleam that makes his blood grow warm. This was either going to be the best or the worst idea he’d ever had, but at least he’d be having a beer. “Sure.”

She keeps her distance as they walk up the beach to the house, carefully walking just over an arm’s length away from him. He wonders if it’s her ingrained training or if it’s just her, then he gives up trying to work her out and simply watches the sway of her hips as she climbs the steps in front of him. Her bare feet are dusted with sand, the smooth skin of her calves making his palms itch with the urge to explore.

 _You are a fucking idiot,_ he tells himself as they reach the wooden deck of the beach house he and LJ have rented for the next month. _She’s not here for that._ The thought is more depressing than he thought possible.

“You around, LJ?” he calls out, then notices the scrap of paper on the kitchen bench, weighted down by a jar of jalapeno peppers. He reads it with a frown, then turns to the woman hovering in the doorway. “My son has apparently decided that we needed milk and bread, so he’s gone to run an errand.”

A faint hint of colour touches her high cheekbones. “He’s a good kid.”

“I know.” He runs his hand over his hair, suddenly wishing he’d thought to have it cut before coming down here, then nods towards the refrigerator. “Beer?”

“Sure.” She moves into the kitchen, watching him intently as he retrieves two beers from the depths of the refrigerator. “He’s very proud of you, you know.”

Lincoln swallows hard. “I’m still getting used to that.”

She takes the beer from his hand, carefully not letting her fingers brush his. “Your father was proud of you, too.” She takes a sip from the moisture-speckled bottle, her eyes leaving his.

He feels the hot pressure behind his eyes and turns away, angry with himself for being so fucking weak, for still wanting to howl with grief every time he thinks of what he's lost. “You traveled thousands of miles to tell me that? I hope you got a great deal on your frequent flyer points.”

She puts down her beer on the counter behind her, then she’s suddenly beside him, crowding him. He can smell her perfume, the clean sweat-scent of her skin. She wraps her hand around his wrist, her fingertips pressed against his pulse, and hunger flares deep in his belly, his groin tightening almost painfully. “I traveled thousands of miles because I gave myself six months to get this fucking _thing_ out of my system. To forget about you.” Her voice is little more than a harsh whisper and it makes him want to shove her up against the sink and kiss her into silence, taste that lush mouth – God, those fucking lips of hers - until she can’t say anything at all. “It didn’t work, so here I am.” She sounds almost surprised, and his pulse begins to race. “I have to know whether _this_ -” she jerks her chin at him, “is just all in my head.”

His free hand clutches the edge of the sink. He can feel his knuckles turning white. “What do you want from me, Jane?”

She sucks in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening around his wrist. “You’re a smart man, Lincoln. You figure it out.”

 _Fuck._

She’s all tied up with the darkness, will always be tangled up with the worst of his past. But they’re both still alive and she’s here and she’s decided – God knows why – that she wants him. He’s almost splitting his skin with the need to touch her, and although this could be the most stupid thing he’s ever done, he suddenly doesn’t care.

His whole body humming with as much anger as it is lust, he thumps his beer onto the side of the sink then turns to kiss her, hard, his hands fisting in her hair. She makes a choked sound in the back of her throat, then her fingers are digging into his biceps, her mouth opening under his in a heated challenge that turns his bones to liquid.

Her mouth tastes of coffee and beer, her lips faintly of lipstick, and he feels something click into place in his head, in his body. Stupid decision or not, he thinks hazily, it might just be the best one he’s ever made.

She arches in his arms, shoving her knee between his, her hands dropping to his waist. He hears her mutter something that sounds like, “I knew it,” then she’s hooking her fingers into the waistband of his jeans, pressing her hips into his as she kisses him again, her tongue deep into his mouth, her teeth scraping his bottom lip.

 _Christ Almighty_. He grabs her hips, struggling to keep his balance in more ways than one. He’s as hard as a rock, the skin all over his body hot and tight and aching, and it’s only the thought of his son’s imminent return that gives him the strength to tear his mouth from hers and step back. The blood is pounding in his head, in his cock, roaring through his ears so loudly he can hardly hear himself speak. “I think that’s a conclusive answer, don’t you?”

“Dad?”

“Shit.” Jane mutters the word in the same breath he does. They look at each other, startled, then Lincoln begins to laugh. “In here, LJ,” he finally manages to call out, his gaze lingering on Jane, cataloguing the swollen sheen of her lips, the blush of colour staining the tanned skin of her throat.

His son appears in the doorway of the kitchen, empty-handed. Lincoln looks at him, then raises a quizzical eyebrow. “What happened to the bread and milk?”

LJ doesn’t even have the decency to blush. “It was the best excuse I could think of,” he says with a shrug, then wanders into the kitchen. He brushes past Lincoln, plucks the discarded beer from the bench, then gives them both a guileless smile. “I’ll be out on the deck.”

Silence descends on the kitchen in the wake of his departure, and Lincoln suddenly feels like a goddamned freshman on his first date. Irritated with himself (and making a mental note to follow his son and retrieve his beer as soon as possible) he reaches out and straightens the collar of Jane’s faintly crumpled white blouse, and gives her a grin. “Was this all the luggage you brought?”

She leans back her head to study him, but doesn’t return his smile. “I have a few things in the rental car.”

“I’ll need to check with LJ, but if he’s cool with it,” he hesitates, some small part of him still completely baffled by this new twist in his life, “you’re more than welcome to stay for a few days.”

She’s still looking at him, her gaze searching his face, and he realises that she’s feeling as unsettled as he is. “I don’t want to intrude on your family Christmas,” she begins, but he shakes his head.

“We have room.”

She presses her lips together. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he tells her, and wonders when he’d starting finding it easy to talk to her. “Michael and Sara will be pleased to see you.” He knows that might not actually be the case, but he also knows it won’t matter. His extended family has learned how to roll with the punches, no matter in which shape or form they arrive.

Jane hesitates long enough to make his heart sink, then she smiles. “I’d like that.”

That afternoon, he sits and watches Jane argue with LJ over whether or not a three foot high potted palm can be considered a Christmas tree, and he knows that the buzz he’s feeling isn’t from the beer in his hand.

He has no idea where this thing with Jane might be going – or even if it’s actually going _anywhere_ \- and he suspects she’s no more certain than he is. The sharp edges of his heart will never be totally smoothed again, he knows that much - there’s been too much grief, too much loss, for him to ever forget. But right here, right now, this feels good. It feels right.

He sits and watches them and can't help thinking that it's going to be a fucking weird Christmas but it's one he never thought he'd see, so he really doesn't give a damn. Sitting back in his chair, beer bottle dangling from his fingertips, it takes him a moment to recognize the warmth threading itself through his thoughts, bleaching away the darkness from the most secret corners of his mind. The sound of LJ’s laughter washing over him, Lincoln suddenly grins, because happy feels a hell of a lot better than he remembers.

 

 

~*~


End file.
